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Sunday, March 17, 2013

"...take a shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod..."

The Irish have long been known for their love of poetry. One of the most popular of Irish verse which some say could serve as the national anthem of Ireland itself, is the poem entitled "Wearin' of the Green".

The poem, which dates back to about 1798 and was written by an unknown poet, strikes a chord in the heart of any true-blooded Irishman.

Here is the poem - an inspiring historical tribute to the Irish soul. You may notice that the last two verses have a different tone to them (one more of resignation). These were written later than the first.

May this poem give you a little more understanding of what the Irish have endured and stir in you a greater love for Erin as we celebrate the feast of St. Patrick - wearin' our green, of course!

The Wearin' of the Green

O Paddy dear, an' did ye hear the news that's goin' round?
The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground;
St. Patrick's Day no more we'll keep, his colour can't be seen,
For there's a cruel law agin the wearin' o' the Green.

I met wid Napper Tandy and he took me by the hand,
And he said, "How's dear ould Ireland, and how does she stand?"
She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,
For they're hangin' men an' women there for the wearin' o' the Green.

Then since the colour we must wear is England's cruel red,
Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed,
You may take a shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
It will take root and flourish there though underfoot it's trod.

When law can stop the blades of grass from growin' as they grow,
And when the leaves in summer-time their colour dare not show,
Then will I change the colour, too, I wear in my caubeen
But 'till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearin' o' the Green.

But if at last our colour should be torn from Ireland's heart,
Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old isle will part;
I've heard a whisper of a land that lies beyond the sea
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.

O Erin, must we leave you driven by a tyrant's hand?
Must we ask a mother's blessing from a strange and distant land?
Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen,
And where, please God, we'll live and die still wearin' o' the green!